6. Tara
TARA
My hands were still shaking as I fumbled with my keys at the apartment door. The metal jangled cheerfully, like tiny church bells, when all I wanted was silence. Blessed, empty silence to drown out my father’s voice saying Jimmy’s name.
I closed the door hard enough to rattle the abstract paintings on the hallway wall. The sound satisfied something primal in me, something that wanted to break things, to make the external world match the chaos inside my chest.
You left. You just left me.
God, had I actually said that? Out loud? To Xander?
I loosened my heels, sending them skittering across the hardwood floor, and went straight for the kitchen. The wine bottle had already been open since the day before. I poured a generous glass, then thought better of it and took the entire bottle with me to the living room.
The apartment was dark except for the streetlights filtering through the windows. But all I saw was Xander’s face, the way his green eyes had gone soft when I’d started crying like some pathetic teenager.
I’ve been frozen since sixteen, waiting ? —
“Fuck.” The word came out as a groan. I collapsed onto the couch, pressing the cold wine bottle against my forehead. All this careful planning, building myself into someone untouchable, and I’d crumbled at the first mention of my brother’s name.
No, that wasn’t fair. It wasn’t just Jimmy’s name. It was how my father had wielded my dead brother like a scalpel, cutting precisely where he knew it would hurt most. And Xander—Xander had been right there to witness my unraveling.
I took a long pull from the bottle, not bothering with the glass anymore. The wine was crisp and cold, burning slightly as it went down. I replayed the hallway scene over and over.
The way Xander had found me. The concern in his voice as he’d called out my name. The tentative step forward, like he was approaching a wounded animal. And then?—
His hand on my cheek. Warm and gentle.
I’d leaned into that touch like a drowning woman reaching for shore.
And when he’d leaned in, when his mouth had been inches from mine, I’d wanted it with a desperation that terrified me.
Not as part of my plan, not as Dr. Swanson manipulating her patient, but as Tara.
Just Tara, who’d been fascinated by this man since she was a teenager.
The almost-kiss burned on my lips like a brand. I could still smell him—something uniquely Xander that hadn’t changed.
If that dish hadn’t clattered?—
I stood abruptly, the wine sloshing dangerously in the bottle.
No, I couldn’t think about what might have happened.
It was a repeat of what had happened twelve years ago at Jimmy’s funeral.
But back then I was only sixteen, hopelessly in love with Xander.
Not anymore. I was an adult with a plan.
Take control. Make Xander depend on me, and then I would reject him the way he abandoned me. Make him pay for what he did.
I needed to regain that control. To remember who I was and what I was doing here.
The wine bottle found its home on the table as I padded barefoot to my home office. I hesitated at the door. This room was my command center. It was where I plotted and planned.
I opened the door and flicked on the lights.
The wall was covered with close to a hundred photos, articles, and screenshots of Xander McCrae’s life.
Here was Xander scoring the winning goal for Rangers.
There was Xander stumbling out of a London nightclub, clearly intoxicated.
A paparazzo shot of him with a blonde model in Ibiza.
His transfer announcement to Chelsea. The fight that had gotten him suspended.
In the center, barely visible beneath layers of more recent additions, was an original photo. The one on Jimmy’s Instagram, taken just a week before the crash. Xander and Jimmy at the beach, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, grinning at the camera like they had all the time in the world.
I stood before my wall of obsession, forcing myself to really look at it. This was who I was. This was what I’d chosen. Every decision in my adult life had led to this moment, to having Xander McCrae finally within reach.
He followed you.
The thought came unbidden, shifting something fundamental in my chest. He’d followed me when I’d fled the dinner. He’d sought me out, touched me, almost kissed me. Not because I’d manipulated him into it, but because...
Because he’d wanted to.
His guilt made him vulnerable. His attraction made him weak. And that almost-kiss? That proved he was just as fucked up about this as I was.
I could work with that.
I moved to my desk, my mind already plotting, strategizing. Tomorrow, I’d reassert control. I would remind him exactly who was in charge.
My hand was on my laptop, ready to pull up my email, when my phone buzzed on the desk beside it. A text from an unsaved number, but I knew who it was from the arrogant tone.
Diego Mano: Still thinking about that dance you owe me, Doc. Let me know when you’re ready to pay up.
I rolled my eyes, a wave of annoyance washing over me.
The team’s pre-launch party, a few weeks before Xander had even arrived.
I’d had two glasses of champagne on an empty stomach and had been circulating to build rapport with the key players.
Diego had cornered me by the bar. I’d engaged in some harmless, professional flirting—the kind of ego-stroking necessary to keep a high-maintenance star striker happy.
I vaguely remembered him asking me to dance, and me demurring with a laugh. “You’ll have to catch me later.”
Apparently, in his mind, “later” had arrived.
I tossed the phone onto the desk without responding. It was a minor annoyance, a gnat to be swatted away later. My focus was singular. My focus was on Xander.
The next morning, the physical therapy room was my stage, and I was the director.
I’d deliberately chosen the private room at the end of the medical wing—the one without windows.
I’d dressed strategically—black athletic leggings that hugged every curve, a fitted Miami Pirates polo that was technically professional but left little to the imagination.
Dr. Swanson was in residence.
When Xander arrived, I put him through his paces. Every command, every touch was designed to re-establish the boundary between doctor and patient, to remind him of my authority. I made him take off his shirt and lie face down on the table, a position that left him vulnerable. Perfect.
I started with a general assessment, my hands moving across his back, cataloguing areas of tension. “Tell me when you feel pain.”
“I always feel pain,” he muttered into the headrest.
I ignored the comment, though something in my chest twisted at the honesty. My fingers found the knots along his spine, the places where he held his stress, his guilt, his twelve years of self-punishment.
“Breathe,” I commanded when I felt him tense. “This won’t work if you’re fighting me.”
“Story of our lives,” he said so quietly I almost missed it.
I pressed harder in response, finding a tight spot between his shoulder blades. He hissed in pain.
“That’s your rhomboid major,” I explained, my voice staying steady even as my hands softened slightly. “You’ve been compensating for that old shoulder injury for years. Your entire posterior chain is a mess.”
I worked the muscle, feeling it slowly release under my fingers. My hands moved lower, to the small of his back where the muscles were practically frozen with tension. Each touch was firm enough to be therapeutic, yet gentle enough to be something else entirely.
“Turn over,” I said after twenty minutes of working on his back.
He shifted, and I caught the briefest glimpse of his face before he settled on his back.
I moved onto his shoulders, standing at the head of the table. This position required me to lean over him, my chest inches from his face as I worked the front of his shoulders. I felt more than heard his sharp intake of breath.
“Relax,” I said, my voice dropping lower despite myself.
“Trying,” he ground out.
My hands moved to his left shoulder, the one with the old injury. I felt the scar tissue beneath my fingers and began working the area.
Then my thumb found it—a deep knot, probably adhesions from the original trauma. I pressed into it, working to break it up.
Xander’s breath caught, his whole body going rigid. It wasn’t just pain—it was memory. His eyes flew open, finding mine, and for a moment he looked exactly like the seventeen-year-old boy who’d been pulled from that wreckage.
My mask slipped. I saw him—really saw him—not as my obsession but as someone who’d been destroyed by the same night that had destroyed me.
“Does that hurt?” My voice came out soft.
He stared up at me, those green eyes wide and vulnerable. “It’s an old injury.”
We both knew we weren’t talking about the muscle anymore.
“I know,” I whispered, my thumb still on that damaged spot, feeling his pulse race beneath the skin. “I know it is.”
The moment stretched between us. My hands had gone still on his shoulder. His hand came up, fingers wrapping around my wrist. Not to stop me, just to touch.
“Tara—”
The sound of my name, not “Dr. Swanson” but “Tara,” broke whatever spell had fallen over us. I jerked back, my mask slamming back into place so hard it felt like whiplash.
“We’re done for today,” I said, my voice sharp.
He sat up slowly, confusion flashing across his face. “But it’s only been?—”
“I said we’re done.” I turned away, busying myself with meaningless paperwork. “You can schedule your next session with my assistant.”
I heard him pull his shirt back on, his soft footfalls as he moved to the door. He paused there, and I could feel him looking at me, wanting to say something. But I kept my back turned, my spine rigid.
The door opened, then closed. His footsteps faded down the hallway.
Only then did I allow myself to breathe, my hands braced on the counter as my legs threatened to give out. For one moment, we’d just been two damaged people recognizing each other’s pain.
I was still trying to process the intense emotional whiplash of the session when I left the private room and walked back toward my office.
“Doc! There you are.”
I turned to find Diego Mano leaning against the wall in the corridor, blocking my path. He was still in his practice gear, a towel slung around his neck, a predatory smile on his face.
“I was just coming to see you,” he said, pushing off the wall to stand directly in front of me. “You didn’t answer my text.”
“I’ve been with a patient, Mr. Mano,” I said, my tone crisp and professional.
“Diego,” he corrected smoothly. “And I think you owe me that dance. Or maybe a drink, to start.” He was standing too close, invading my personal space in a way that was clearly intentional.
“I don’t recall owing you anything,” I said, trying to step around him. He shifted his body subtly, blocking me again.
“Come on, Tara,” he purred, his eyes raking over me. “That night at the party... you wanted to. Don’t play shy now. How about tonight? That new place on Collins.”
He was backing me into a corner, and I could feel my annoyance curdling into genuine anger. I was about to agree to a “one-drink date” I had no intention of keeping, just to create an exit, when a new voice cut in.
“Dr. Swanson? Sorry to interrupt.”
I looked past Diego’s shoulder to see Ben Carter standing there, a water bottle in his hand. His expression was open and friendly, but his eyes, when they flicked to Diego, were hard.
“Ben,” I said, a wave of relief washing over me. “What can I do for you?”
“I just had a quick question about the new hamstring exercises,” he said, stepping forward and positioning himself neatly between me and Diego, creating a welcome buffer. “Am I supposed to be feeling the stretch more in the belly of the muscle or near the insertion point?”
Diego’s jaw tightened, his frustration at being interrupted by a rookie palpable. He shot Ben a look of pure venom before turning his charming smile back on me.
“We’ll talk later, Doc,” he said, his voice a low promise. He brushed past Ben, deliberately bumping his shoulder as he went.
Ben didn’t flinch. He waited until Diego was out of earshot before turning to me, his “question” about his hamstring forgotten. “You okay?” he asked, his voice quiet.
“I’m fine,” I said, though I was more shaken than I wanted to admit. “Thank you, Ben.”
He just nodded, a silent understanding passing between us. “Anytime, Doc.”
He gave me a small, respectful smile and walked away.
I watched Ben until he disappeared around the corner.
This morning I’d been so certain, so smug in my belief that I was in control of this game. I’d manipulated Xander’s body on my table. I’d orchestrated every touch. I’d convinced myself I was the puppet master.
What a joke.